


A Taste of Christmas

by adventureofthedancinggirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 17,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventureofthedancinggirl/pseuds/adventureofthedancinggirl
Summary: Chapter 12: “Elf”, John and Sherlock shop for Rosie’s gifts and discuss a popular new Christmas tradition.Chapter 13: “Winter Wonderland”, Sherlock takes Rosie to the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park and helps Greg chase down a lead on his missing person case.Chapter 14: “Pine Scented”, Greg and Sherlock have a conversation while following a pine-scented trail.Chapter 15: “Stuck at Home”, Sherlock stumbles across a murder scene while on an outing with Rosie. The way he handles it surprises both him and John.Chapter 16: “The Case of the Frozen Corpse”, from The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. WatsonChapter 17: “Scarf and Coat”, Sherlock pays Mycroft a holiday visit, during which they discuss Rosie’s Christmas present.





	1. Peppermint

**Author's Note:**

> These ficlets will be loosely related, in the sense that they will all be set within a single Christmas season. Mainly John & Sherlock, though other characters will make an appearance.
> 
> Post-Series 4 (Rosie is about 4 years old in this).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a cup of holiday tea and a conversation with John brings up some bittersweet feelings for Sherlock.

Sherlock reached for his mug, letting it warm his hands. It has been a bitterly cold day and he’d spent most of it wandering the streets, checking in with various members of his homeless network, trying to find a lead on the missing person case Lestrade had yet to solve.

He breathed in the steam and caught the faint scent of...what was that? Ugh, Peppermint. He sighed. He should have expected this when he’d asked John to have tea waiting for him despite not having done the shopping. Why did Christmas make people feel like they needed to infuse every beverage with melted candy canes?

He set the mug aside and rummaged through the cabinets. Surely they couldn’t be completely out of normal tea. Ten minutes and a broken saucer later proved otherwise. All he’d found was the rest of the tea sampler the peppermint blend had come with. Likely a holiday gift exchange from one of John’s co-workers. He turned the box over and scanned the label, unconsciously deducing the gift-giver.

Female. Late-thirties. Middle-class family. Fashionable but relatively unimaginative. Uses gift giving as a way to show affection. Interested in an attractive widowed doctor with an adorable daughter. 

Annoyed, Sherlock tossed the box aside and flung himself down on the couch. He’d hoped John would be around to bounce ideas off of but he’d been upstairs with Rosie since Sherlock returned. Something about writing a letter to Santa. If he concentrated he could hear her laughter and John’s soft voice. Sherlock let his eyes slide closed and he let himself imagine, not for the first time, that this little family was all that mattered in the world.

He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, the soft sounds of a holiday television programme filled the room and John was sitting on the other end of the couch.

“Where’s Rosie?”

“It’s almost midnight,” John said in answer, “I’m surprised she didn’t wake you when we came down earlier. She wanted to show you her Christmas letter.”

John handed him a piece of paper and Sherlock smiled as he read. Rosie had alternated between red and green crayon with each line. She’d insisted on writing the list on her own, he noticed - the faint pencil outlines that John used to write for her to trace were missing. Sherlock wasn’t familiar with the standard developmental milestones, but young Watson seemed ahead of the curve. He couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride as he read on. 

About halfway down the page there was a scribbled blob, covering up some words, that might have passed for a drawing of an avalanche or a sideways christmas tree depending on how you looked at it.

“She wanted to ask Santa for a nice murder for you,” John explained, his expression flickering between disapproval and amusement.

Sherlock laughed. “That’s generous of her, using one of her Christmas wishes on me.”

John shook his head, “Seriously, Sherlock. We’ve got to be more careful about which cases we talk about in front of her. It’s not like when she was a baby - she actually understands what you’re saying now. A bit too well if you ask me.” 

“It’s all part of her education. You agreed we should encourage her interest in science.” 

“Yeah, but children her age are supposed learn about the solar system and how evaporation works, not how to identify the cause of death in a murder victim!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’ll never let that go, will you? I told you it doesn’t matter if the earth goes around the sun. Besides what’s the _point_ of learning the names of planets when they might all turn out to be asteroids or moons or stardust instead.”

“That’s not the point!” John said. “I don’t want my daughter going around asking for a Christmas murder. People will get the wrong idea.”

Sherlock fell silent and stared down at his hands. It was a fair point - murder wasn’t generally an acceptable topic of conversation outside of select circles, but John’s words had hit home. 

_My daughter_. 

No matter how much they claimed that the three of them were a family, it didn’t change the fact that Rosie was John’s daughter and Sherlock was just...her godfather and John’s best friend. And maybe someday John would fall in love again and leave him. Then Rosie could grow up in a house with her own bedroom and a kitchen that didn’t have experiments hiding behind every cabinet door.

“Hey,” John said softly, laying a hand on his arm, but Sherlock rose, mumbled something about sleep and retreated to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. It was childish, he knew, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

It was colder here than in the sitting room, where the glow of the fire and John’s presence had kept the winter chill at bay and he shivered slightly as he slipped under the covers for warmth. He could hear John shuffling around in the kitchen and tried to focus on details of the case to distract him from the ever-present fear that he was a replaceable element in John and Rosie’s lives.

After a few minutes there were footsteps, a moment’s hesitation, then a soft knock on the door.

“Sherlock? You awake?”

It was a rhetorical question and when Sherlock didn’t answer, John took his silence as permission to enter.

Sherlock’s back was turned to the door but he heard John place something on the bedside table and take a seat at the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean anything by it. She’s not just my daughter and I love that she’s interested in your work.” 

Sherlock made a sound of disbelief.

“Okay, well, I don’t love that she knows so much about crime and murder at her age - ”

John shifted slightly and Sherlock could feel the warmth from his hip, barely touching his back.

“But it’s not really your fault,” he continued, “You know, I used to read her the stories from my blog at bedtime. I mean there’s only so many times you can say goodnight to every object in a fictional room. I think that’s how it started.”

Sherlock sat up to face him.

“Why would you do that?” 

John shrugged and took a sip from one of the mugs he’d brought with him. 

“I suppose, so she would know how amazing you are.”

John smiled and he was near enough that Sherlock could smell the peppermint on his breath. Strange how the scent that had caused him to roll his eyes earlier was now so intoxicating. He shivered and pulled the blankets closer around him.

“I know you don’t really like peppermint,” John said, handing him the second mug, “but at least it’ll warm you up a bit.

Sherlock took the mug, but it was John’s words and this feeling of belonging that warmed him from the inside out, more than the silly flavoured tea. He knew they were both constantly walking a thin line between the thrill of adventure and making sure Rosie got to enjoy a proper childhood, but in this moment it felt like they would make this work.

Some nights were best spent chasing criminals down darkened streets, but others were best spent like this - side by side on his bed drinking holiday tea while imagining the taste of peppermint on John’s lips.


	2. Wish list

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: "Wish list", In which Rosie writes her letter to Santa. Of course, John only has one thing on his wishlist.
> 
> Warnings: a (very brief) conversation about murder.

John cradled his mug of peppermint tea in his hands as he nudged open the door to the upstairs bedroom. Rosie was laying on her stomach surrounded by paper and crayons, writing her letter to Santa. She had insisted on writing it herself this year and John was both proud and a little sad about how quickly she was growing up.

“Daddy, are you gonna write a letter too?” she asked when he sat down beside her.

“No, Sweetheart,” he said, “Remember I told you Santa gives gifts to people when they’re children so they learn how to give to others when they grow up?”

She nodded.

“Well, I already got my gifts from Santa when I was your age and now he’s going to come and give presents to you.”

He brushed a lock of her blonde curls out of her face. She needed a haircut again before the new year.

“Besides,” he continued, “I have you. What more could I possibly ask for?”

“What about Sherlock?”

John’s heart jumped, then he realized what Rosie was actually asking.

“He’d probably want more eyeballs to experiment on,” he said automatically before remembering he was addressing his four-year-old daughter, “Wait, no. You can’t write that.”

Rosie shrugged and turned back to her crayons.

“You should write a list anyway,” she said after another minute, “Maybe Santa will bring you something after all. I promise I won’t look if it’s a secret.”

She handed him a paper on which she had written “Daddy’s Wishlist” at the top in neat letters.

John took the paper and stared at it while Rosie scribbled away at her own letter. There really was nothing he could think to wish for. Nothing except...he picked up the pen and wrote one word on the paper, then immediately crossed it out. He waited until Rosie was looking away before tossing it in the bin with a sinking heart. Wishing was all well and good until you grew up and realized that not everything was possible.

\---

After wrapping a few presents for Harry, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson, John peeked over Rosie’s shoulder again and saw that she’d completed her own wishlist and had moved on to requests for other people.

_A new computer for daddy so he doesn’t have to yell at it anymore._

John bit his lip. He hadn’t realized Rosie had witnessed his outburst yesterday when his laptop crashed for the third time that week. He was sure it had something to do with Sherlock borrowing it while working on a case last month that sent him trawling through more than a few dubious websites.

He shook his head and glanced down at the next item Rosie was adding to her list:

_A nice murder for Sherlock._

“ROSIE!”

She jumped and the crayons around her went flying in all directions.

“What?” She asked, blinking up at him with wide, innocent eyes, “Isn’t that what Sherlock wants?”

John crouched down next to her. “Sherlock doesn’t want a murder.”

“But when Uncle Greg called him about one in July he said it was Christmas.”

“Rosie, do you know what a murder is?”

She gave him a look that clearly said, _of course I do_.

“It’s when one person does something to hurt another person and that person dies,” she said.

“Does that sound like a something you should wish for?”

“No,” Rosie frowned, “but Sherlock is good so why does he like murder?”

John sighed. “It’s one of those confusing things, Sweetie. It’s...well, Sherlock likes puzzles. And that murder was a puzzle. He helped Uncle Greg find the bad guy.”

It was a simplified answer but it was the best he could think of. He continued, “Sherlock doesn’t want anyone dead. But he likes to solve the mystery of how it happened. That’s why he was excited. Understand?”

She nodded. “So, I can’t ask Santa to give Sherlock a murder?”

“No, definitely not.”

* * *

(Written on a neatly folded paper, written in red and green crayons)

Dear Santa,

My name is Rosie Watson and I am four years old. I’ve been a very good girl this year.

Proof of me being good:

  * I do the shopping with Daddy and put the food in the bags when he pays the machine.
  * I help Sherlock with his experiments.
  * Aunt Molly said Toby only likes nice people and Toby likes me a lot. He even lets me pet his tummy. Toby is her cat.
  * I keep Mrs. H company when Daddy and Sherlock go to help Uncle Greg with his work.
  * I don’t make fun of Uncle Myc even though Sherlock does. (I told him it is not nice.)



For Christmas I would like:

  * A swishy coat like Sherlock’s. But I want mine to be red because that is my favourite colour.
  * For Pluto to be a planet. Daddy says it was before and Sherlock says it doesn’t matter but I think Pluto should get to be a planet if it wants to.



Will you please also bring:

  * A new computer for Daddy so he doesn’t have to yell at it anymore.
  * ~~A nice murder for Sherlock~~
  * A fun case for Sherlock.



I still don’t know how you go around the whole world in one night. Daddy says it’s magic and Sherlock told me that it is different times at different places in the world so you can visit them all. If you could tell me I would like that.

I hope you like my cookies when you come to visit. Mrs. Hudson is going to help me make them shaped like snowmen this year.

Love,

Rosie

* * *

(Written on a crumpled paper in the waste bin)

Daddy’s Wishlist

~~Sherlock~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know this isn’t the way most 4-year olds would write a Christmas list, but remember who she’s being raised by. Haha. That’s actually just a convenient excuse for the fact that I have very little frame of reference for what a child that age would actually write. 
> 
> Also, It's the weekend! Which means I have time to play catch-up on these prompts. Stay tuned.


	3. All dressed up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3: "All dressed up", In which John and Sherlock attend Rosie's Christmas play and Sherlock realizes that being a parent isn't limited by blood.

The church behind Rosie’s nursery school was covered with a thin sprinkling of snow, making it look like something out of a Christmas card. Rosie herself was dressed up in her costume - a floor-length burgundy robe with a gold sash and a headpiece adorned with plastic jewels.

They dropped her off at the room next door that was serving as a backstage area, then made their way back to the main chapel to wait for the Christmas program to start.

“What is she supposed to be?” Sherlock asked as one of the assistant teachers greeted them at the door.

“One of the Magi,” John replied.

“Oh, so that’s why she asked me for frankincense the other week.”

John chuckled, “Yeah, well I said ‘no’ when she asked me for gold. What’s the betting she asked Mrs. Hudson for myrrh?”

“For all you know, she might have some. She does have other natural medicines.”

He winced as John elbowed him in the side.

They made their way to the towering spruce tree in the corner. The upper branches were draped with garlands but the lower ones were hung with colorful baubles that each of the children had decorated the week before. They searched for Rosie’s and eventually found the glittery silver orb facing the window as though the bright red flower Rosie had drawn on it was reaching for the setting sun.

They both smiled fondly at it, drinking in the festive chatter around them. Other parents greeted them and made the usual small talk as they came up to search for their own child’s ornament.

“Oh no,” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and pulling him toward the other side of the room.

“What?”

“Cynthia,” was all he had time to say before a slim blonde woman in a short, red dress greeted John with a hug and started chattering away about how adorable Rosie looked in her costume and how her own daughter was so excited to be onstage and oh, there’s a couple of seats over there and John should come sit with her.

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, “Didn’t you already save our seats?”

They both looked at him, John with visible relief and Cynthia with annoyance. John nodded and placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm, pointing to the seats in the third row near the aisle.

Cynthia’s smile faltered.

“Oh, hello,” she said to Sherlock, then glanced back and forth between him and John, “So this is your -”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, extending his hand to her in greeting, “I’d say it’s been a pleasure but we already have seats so we’ll be going. It looks like your ex-husband is here with his new girlfriend. Perhaps you could sit with them.”

He turned and strode away, leaving John to mumble an apology before following.

When he reached the seats John had pointed out, Sherlock was surprised to see a makeshift sign on each:

_Reserved for the parents of Rosie Watson_

John slid in beside him, laughing.

“Thanks for that.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“How did you get these anyway?” he asked, “No one else had seats reserved.

“Talked to one of the mums on the decorating committee, Rita.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “ _Flirted_ , you mean. I see you’re very popular with the single mothers.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Her _wife_ was one of the people whose jobs you saved during that big financial case two years ago. Melanie Rosetti ring any bells?”

“Please. You know I delete all irrelevant details once the case is over.”

“Well, she remembers you.”

“I’ve been told I have that effect on people.”

“I mean, she remembers you and Rosie.”

Sherlock looked at him.

“Apparently I was at the clinic that day and you decided it would be a good idea to take Rosie along on the investigation,” John said, “I meant to ask you about that.”

“Relax, John, we were in Lestrade’s conference room the whole time. Actually, I think it helped having Rosie there. She seemed more willing to talk than at the previous meeting.”

“I know, I’m just saying that’s why she remembered you. She said she was surprised at first when she heard you had a kid. But then she saw you with Rosie and that’s what made her trust you.”

Sherlock let those last words sink in.

“She...she thinks I’m one of Rosie’s parents?”

John smiled.

“Well, aren’t you?”

“I-”

Before Sherlock could figure out how that sentence was supposed to end, the audience lights dimmed and the group of children by the door scurried to their places.

As they sat together, watching their little girl follow the Star of Bethlehem to present her gift to baby Jesus, Sherlock’s heart was filled with more love than he had ever imagined was possible. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I have no idea what nursery school/preschool Christmas programs are like in the UK, so I ended up basing the setting loosely on what I remember of my early school years.


	4. Winter Sports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: "Winter Sports", In which Sherlock goes ice skating for the first time and discovers it’s not as easy as it looks. Lucky for him he has an excellent teacher.

“Really? Never?”

“Why is that so hard to believe, John?”

“I dunno, doesn’t everyone go ice skating as a kid?”

“Clearly not. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal.”

“Fine. Molly was going to take Rosie shopping tomorrow anyway, so you and I are going ice skating.”

“Why can’t we take Rosie with us?”

“Because I can’t teach both of you at the same time.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “How hard can it be? You know I used to dance.”

John smiled. This was one of the many things he’d learned after he and Rosie moved back to Baker Street. Of course, he’d known Sherlock could waltz ever since those lessons before his wedding to Mary, but it wasn’t until they spent Christmas at the Holmes family house that John learned that his friend had been quite a talented ballet dancer in his teen years.

Rosie had been twirling around the living room in a red tutu, which had prompted Sherlock’s mum to dig up a video of 16-year old Sherlock as the Nutcracker prince, despite the fully-grown Sherlock’s protests. Rosie had been fascinated and spent the rest of the evening watching the video on repeat until she drifted off to sleep in the Land of the Sweets on the third time through.

John himself had been just as enthralled by the graceful lines of Sherlock’s body, the way he made every movement look effortless, and the passion that radiated from him during his performance. Still, there was a different element once ice skates were involved.

“Okay then, I guess tomorrow it’s time for your rendition of ‘Nutcracker on Ice’,” John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but went back to reading his book without argument.

* * *

The next evening found the pair of them at the outdoor rink in Hyde Park. They rented skates and made their way over to the ice.

“Want some help?” John asked as Sherlock gripped the rail around the edge of the rink trying to steady himself.

“It’s basic physics,” Sherlock said, glancing at the teenagers zipping past them, “I’m sure I can figure it out.”

A second later, he stumbled forward and only avoided falling by grabbing onto John’s arm.

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist to steady him.

“Not so easy, is it?”

Sherlock glared at him and John laughed.

“Here,” he said, “Just start slow. Bend your knees a bit and shift your weight to the balls of your feet.”

He glided several yards forward then turned gracefully to face Sherlock.

Sherlock tried again, trying to imitate John’s stance and focusing on the placement of his feet, but the blades on his skates didn’t seem to want to stay parallel and he stumbled over to the side once more.

“You’re doing great,” John called, “Just try again.”

Sherlock shook his head, not ready to leave the safety of the railing.

“Let me watch you, I’ll figure it out.”

John nodded and turned to make his way around the rink, gliding easily over the ice. Sherlock tried to focus on the way he bent his knees, the weight distribution of his feet over the thin blade, and the way he held his arms. But instead he found himself admiring the easy, graceful way John’s body moved and the look of joy in his eyes as the wind ruffled his hair.

When John had nearly finished a second lap Sherlock forced himself to tear his eyes away from his friend and tried again to imitate him. This time he made it a grand total of ten feet before ending up sprawled on the ice.

“Sherlock, you okay?” John asked, sliding to a stop in front of him.

“Fine,” he grumbled. He pulled himself into a more comfortable seat but remained on the ground.

“The ice really wants to be my friend.”

John laughed and turned in a quick circle to check that they were out of the other skaters' way.

“How are you so good at this?” Sherlock asked.

“Been doing it since I was little,” John said, “There was this lake near our house that used to freeze over during the winter. Harry and I used to go out there every weekend for as long a the ice was thick enough.”

“You miss it.”

John nodded. More than anything else at this time of year, he missed Harry. They had been so close as children but now he was lucky if they talked twice a year.

“You should call her,” Sherlock said, “the holidays are apparently supposed to be spent with family.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I’m not the one full of nostalgia right now,” Sherlock pointed out, “Besides, I see Mycroft far too much for my liking.”

John shook his head. He knew that despite their odd ways of showing affection, the Holmes brothers really did care about each other. He also knew that Sherlock was secretly looking forward to Christmas dinner at his parents’ house, if only for his mother’s baking.

“Well, anyway, you can’t just sit there all night,” John said, "Your arse is gonna freeze."

He pulled Sherlock to his feet once more, but caught the look of uncertainty in his friend’s eyes as he glanced toward the edge of the ice.

“Here,” he said turning to face Sherlock directly, “Take my hands.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“People might talk,” he joked.

John just shrugged, “This is how mum and dad taught us.”

He waited and Sherlock placed both hands in John’s. Even through their gloves he imagined he could feel a bit of warmth.

“Okay, just one step at a time,” John said, skating carefully backward while holding Sherlock steady, “Focus on me, not the ground.”

Sherlock raised his gaze to John’s face. The sound of his heart beating in his chest and the whisper of their skates cutting into the ice seemed to drown out the chatter of the crowd around them as he concentrated on the deep blue-green of John’s eyes.

In this manner they made their way around the rink, John breaking eye contact only to glance over his shoulder to check that their path was clear. Every once in awhile, Sherlock’s grip on John’s hands tightened as he steadied himself, but gradually he began to gain confidence.

“You seem to be getting the hang of it,” John said after a full lap with minimal wobbles from Sherlock, “Want to try it on your own?”

He lowered his hands a bit, but ran his fingers gently along Sherlock’s palm, reluctant to let go.

Sherlock tightened his grip in response and shook his head. He probably didn’t need the support anymore but John didn’t need to know that.

“Maybe one more time around?”

John smiled and gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze before setting off again, leading them on a meandering path around the rink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is pretty much based on my own first time skating. I’m a dancer, so people said it should be easy enough. Turns out, it’s really freaking hard. Like Sherlock, I got the hang of it eventually (after spending the first 15-20 minutes inching my way around the edge while my partner went zipping around the rink like he'd been doing it his whole life).


	5. Decorating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5: "Decorating", In which the inhabitants of 221B spend an evening making gingerbread houses.

John was just getting ready to leave the clinic when his phone chimed with an incoming text. As he reached for it he heard another ping. Then another, and another.

_We need candy canes. SH_

_And gumdrops. SH_

_and some of that thin red candy that looks like rope. SH_

_John? SH_

John rolled his eyes and pressed speed dial. Sherlock answered almost immediately.

“John, good! I have a list. Are you at the shops yet?”

“What on earth are you doing, Sherlock?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“That’s never a good sign.”

“John.”

John sighed. “Fine, text me the list.”

\---

An hour later John kicked open the door to 221B, arms laden with more sugary confections than should be consumed in a year and a few other things that had actually been on their grocery list.

John paused for a moment to take in the scene in front of him. Sherlock was stirring something in a large bowl while Rosie stood on a step stool beside him and poured in a cup of flour.

“Sherlock...are you baking?”

Sherlock nodded and fiddled with the oven as Rosie ran over to give John a hug.

Daddy, look! We’re making gingerbreads!

John dropped the shopping on the kitchen table then reached around Sherlock and popped a spoonful of dough into his mouth.

“Wow, that’s delicious.”

Sherlock frowned at him and snatched the spoon away.

“So that’s where she gets it from,” he said nodding toward Rosie, “She's been trying to steal a taste all afternoon. You’re supposed to wait until it’s cooked.”

* * *

Once the last batch of gingerbread was finished baking, the three of them sat around the kitchen table amidst a mountain of sweets.

“This is enough to feed an army,” John said, “Why’d you make so much?”

Sherlock looked around at the pile of cookies as if only now realizing how many there were.

“Not that I’m complaining,” John added, “They’re really good.”

He picked up a gingerbread man and nibbled off its leg.

“I asked my mother to send over her recipe,” Sherlock said, “I forgot she had to take Mycroft’s cookie consumption into account when she used to make these. He always ended up eating the equivalent of a gingerbread _mansion_.”

Rosie giggled. “Can we give Uncle Myc a gingerbread man?”

“Sure, sweetie,” John said, and shot Sherlock a look before he could say anything else about his brother.

Sherlock shrugged and went back to assembling the base of Rosie’s house while she selected the candies she wanted to use.

“John, you might want to use a different piece. Your house looks like a hurricane hit.”

“Well, excuse me.” John grumbled, pushing the gingerbread walls upright again, “You’re the one who refused to let us use milk cartons like normal people.”

“Unnecessary,” Sherlock said and waved a hand at his perfectly symmetrical house, “Right, Rosie?”

“Unnecessary,” she agreed. She had just finished coating the roof of her house in the thickest layer of icing John had ever seen. The gumdrops she shoved onto it were almost completely submerged.

John chuckled and went to work repairing his own house. After a bit of work it looked passably stable, thanks to the peppermint sticks he’d placed at the corners. He lined the roof with alternating rows of red and green candies but most of his attention was focused on making sure Rosie didn’t ingest too much sugar or she’d be up all night.

The amount of frosting she had used on her house made it look like a snow storm had hit, and the gingerbread family she'd placed in the front yard stood knee-deep in marshmallows.

John finally managed to get her to sleep by promising that they could decorate the remaining gingerbread people tomorrow, but only if she went to bed without a fuss.

After tucking her in, he came back downstairs to find Sherlock still adding details to his house - a neatly scalloped pattern on the roof, and delicate icicles dripping from the eaves. John took a seat beside him. It was like watching an artist work, forming a scene out of nothing.

He let his gaze wander from the precise movements of Sherlock’s fingers to the look of concentration on his face as he wiggled a tree-shaped cookie into place.

Eventually Sherlock looked up.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re staring.”

John blushed, “I was just wondering how you manage to be so amazing at everything.”

Sherlock turned to add a gumdrop to the path that led to his house.

“It’s nothing.”

“I’m not talking about this,” John nodded toward the gingerbread houses, “but of course it’s just like you to make the perfect gingerbread house.”

“I’m not perfect, John. You of all people know that.”

“You are to me.”

When Sherlock didn’t respond he added, “I don’t think you realize just how amazing you are.”

Sherlock looked up and for a moment their eyes met.

“I feel like I could say the same for you,” he said, “But not at gingerbread houses. You’re rubbish at those.”

John laughed and gave him a shove.

“I take it back. You’re an arse.”

“And yet you still insist on living with me.”

Sherlock stood and started down the hall.

“Why is that, I wonder?” he asked with a smirk.

John waited until he heard Sherlock’s bedroom door close behind him before whispering his answer to the empty room.

“Because I love you.”


	6. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6: "Cold", In which we take a peek into Molly Hooper's life.

Molly opened the door to her flat with a sigh and shook the snow from her coat. It had been a long day, followed by a tedious evening out with a group of her old school mates. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy spending time with them - she just didn’t need the constant reminder that she was almost 40 and still single. Jenny’s boyfriend had proposed the week before (What was it about people getting engaged during the holidays?) and the entire night, the conversation had alternated between talk about the upcoming wedding and speculating about when “Little Miss Perfect” would finally find a man.

“You need to get out there, girl,” Meena had told her, “You know, Tinder is a thing right? There’s thousands of men in the sea.”

“Or women, if that tickles your fancy,” Carol added, “We don’t judge.”

Molly shook her head. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to meet anyone. It was just that she always seemed to fall for men who were unavailable, liars, or just entirely the wrong person for her. Besides, she was perfectly fine on her own. Though she had to admit on cold nights like this it would be nice to have someone besides Toby to warm the other side of the bed.

Her phone buzzed and she fished it out of her pocket reluctantly. No doubt it was Meena following up on her promise to set up an online dating profile for her.

Instead she smiled as a photo from Greg popped up. She tapped the screen to open it and saw a darkened image of the ice rink at Hyde Park.

 _What’s this about?_ She asked

_Donovan took this the other night. Are you seeing what I’m seeing?_

Molly looked again and saw two familiar silhouettes on the ice. When she zoomed in, she saw that John seemed to be holding Sherlock’s hands, leading him around the rink.

The photo was far too dark to see their faces but Molly could imagine the way Sherlock was looking at John in that moment. It had been like that since the very beginning, back when she’d dreamed that he would look at her that way. And now it seemed like they were the only two people in the world who didn’t recognize how much the other loved them.

Another message from Greg popped up:

_It’s just a matter of time, huh?_

Molly smiled. She knew there was a running pool at the Met about when those two idiots would finally get together. Greg had apparently put his money on the week between Christmas and New Year’s.

Still, every time she tried to push Sherlock toward confessing his feelings to John, he deflected by deducing her love life instead. According to him, she had recently developed feelings for someone she’d been close to for a long time but didn’t know how to tell them.

Sometimes she felt like Sherlock just said things based on probability rather than observation. But this time he had been alarmingly specific. She didn’t think she’d been that obvious, especially since she thought it would never work out. He’d been married after all. But now…

Her phone pinged with another text.

_What do you think, should I change my bet to next week?_

Molly thought about it for a minute then replied, _Give it til after their holiday party._

She paused for a moment then added, _You’ll be there too, right?_

The reply came almost immediately. _Of course._

Molly was about to put her phone away when the three dots in the corner of the screen caught her eye. She smiled and felt the cold fading away as she crawled beneath the covers and let Toby warm her feet while she waited for the conversation to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't know, I totally ship Molly and Lestrade. She deserves better than whatever was going on in TFP and he deserves someone who won't cheat on him. Don't worry, we'll be back to our Baker Street boys later tonight. (or possibly tomorrow morning, depending on what time zone you live in.)


	7. Christmas Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7: "Christmas Cards", In which Mrs. Hudson convinces her boys to take a family photo for the holidays.

The holiday decorating in 221B was almost complete. Mrs. Hudson joined them for the finishing touches and snapped a few photos when Sherlock lifted Rosie onto his shoulders to place the star at the top of the Christmas tree.

“Oh boys,” she said, “You should really start sending Christmas cards.”

“Why on earth would we do that?” Sherlock asked, adjusting some of the ornaments so the colours were more evenly distributed.

“It’s so wonderful getting the post and seeing smiling faces and holiday wishes from loved ones.”

“But you see us every day,” said Sherlock.

John glanced at Rosie and was struck once again by how quickly time flew when you had a young child. Sure, he and Sherlock had hundreds of photos of her on their phones, but it wasn’t quite the same.

“Maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” he admitted.

Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen to check on his latest experiment - something to do with the strength and density of icicles infused with various substances.

“No thanks.”

“Why not?”

“Family photo sessions are tedious. I have no desire to relive that.”

“Wait, your family used to send Christmas cards?” John asked, “Why haven’t I seen this?”

“Oh please, they’re in an album somewhere. I’m sure my mother would be happy to show you, but it’s not that exciting. I was adorable, Mycroft was fat. The photographer made us stand in the same position while he took an unnecessary number of photos that all looked the same.”

He rolled his eyes, “I will not subject Rosie to that.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“If I remember correctly, you and your sister were forced to wear horrible matching outfits in yours.”

John wrinkled his nose. “Fine, you can pick Rosie’s outfit but we’re taking the photos.”

“Can I pick your outfit too?”

“No.”

* * *

A few days later, Mrs. Hudson returned from the shops to find an envelope taped to her door.

The card inside had two photos surrounding a simple holiday greeting. The top image showed Rosie twirling in the center of the living room, the new maroon dress Sherlock had bought for the occasion flaring out around her.

The bottom one was a photo of all three of them. Rosie was in John’s arms, laughing as Sherlock pointed to something out of view. Sherlock seemed to be explaining something to her, but John’s gaze was on Sherlock, his eyes alight, a smile spreading across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone still send Christmas cards? I'll admit that I don't (my excuse is that I don't have a kid) but honestly I think we should bring back just sending fun cards to friends and family regardless. It's so much fun getting mail that isn't an advertisement or a bill. 
> 
> Happy Holidays, everyone!


	8. Warming Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's frustrating week improves when he meets Molly for coffee.

Greg stepped into the coffee shop and shook the rain from his coat. It has been a miserable week, what with the usual increase in thefts around the holidays and a still-unsolved missing person case.

There was every indication that the man in question had run off on his own, but something about it still nagged at him and he couldn’t bring himself to close the case. He’d even brought Sherlock in to consult, but the frustrating man hadn’t found it interesting enough to be worth his full attention and had pawned the legwork off onto his homeless network, none of whom had found any leads.

And now to top it off, it wouldn’t stop raining.

His day took a turn for the better when Molly Hooper greeted him brightly and waved him over to her table. She had clearly made quite a dent in her Christmas shopping because she had to shift several bags aside to make space for him to join her.

“Look at this,” she said, handing him an envelope from her purse.

He opened it to find Rosie, John and Sherlock smiling up at him.

“They actually made a holiday card,” he chucked in disbelief.

If anyone had told him when he met Sherlock Holmes that the man would someday be a proud parent sending holiday cards he would have either laughed or given them a drug test. But after seeing the way Sherlock had changed after meeting John, then again when John and Rosie moved back to Baker Street, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

The photo was a perfect embodiment of their little family, not posed with awkward smiles like the ones he’d gotten when his nieces and nephews were young.

He gazed at the card wistfully. He had wanted kids. Maybe if his ex-wife hadn’t cheated on him repeatedly and blamed it on his busy schedule, or maybe if he’d had the courage to let her go sooner, he might have a family of his own to spend Christmas with.

“Are you thinking about your wife?”

Then of course, he had Molly in his life, so perceptive in her own way, always so good at observing the feelings people tried to keep hidden, even from themselves.

“Ex-wife,” he corrected her, “and no.”

She gave him a look.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“I mean, it’s been years, but it’s just something about the holidays that reminds you...”

“Of what could have been?”

He shook his head, “More like, of all the time wasted.”

They sipped their coffees in silence for several minutes.

Greg looked back at the card lying between them.

“They look so happy. Hard to believe those two haven’t figured it out yet.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “I'm starting to think it’ll take a Christmas miracle for _that_ to happen.”

“Anything we can do to speed this along? I’ve got a bet to win.”

She laughed, “I can try talking to John next time he comes by to drop off Rosie alone, but you’ll need to talk to Sherlock.”

“Why me?”

“Because I’m tired of having my love life deduced.”

She stopped suddenly as she realized what she’d just said.

“Oh,” Greg said, feeling his heart sinking a bit, “I didn’t realize you - Is he coming to the party?”

“What? No, I’m not -” she bit her lip, “I guess I’m sort of in the same boat as they are. I mean. This guy...we’re friends and all, but I have no idea if…” she trailed off.

“Well, he’d be an idiot if he didn’t feel the same,” said Greg.

She blushed.

“Didn’t you say you needed help finding a gift for Rosie?”

He nodded.

“We could go now if you’ve got time,” she offered, gathering the packages around her.

Despite the cold rain still falling outside, Greg felt himself warming up as they left the shop huddled under Molly’s sunflower umbrella.


	9. Ghosts of Christmas Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reflects on past Christmases. Despite all the bad memories he finds something to hope for.

“Daddy, I wanna hear a Christmas story.”

John reached for a book on the dresser but Rosie stopped him.”

“No, I want one of your stories.”

He stopped. It had been ages since he’d read to Rosie from his blog. After all, most of Sherlock’s cases weren’t exactly appropriate for a bedtime story. He went through a quick mental check of any Christmas stories on there that didn’t involve murder. There were none.

Finally he settled on telling Rosie about one year when he and Harry were little. They’d ended up going to their Aunt’s house up north and, upon discovering she owned a pair of huskies, tied their leashes to the front of a sled and tried sliding down the hill. They’d managed to get about 10 feet before the sled rolled sideways and the dogs broke free and ran back to the house. They’d gotten quite a scolding but, once that was over, discovered that the dogs were good partners for playing hide and seek.

He kept talking as Rosie's eyes drifted closed, telling her about the dogs and the trails where they’d gone hiking.

Once she was asleep John laid back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the flickering shadows from the nightlight.

He hadn’t realized how few happy Christmas memories he had in the years before Rosie.

Before he'd met Sherlock, his Christmases had progressed from shouting and loaded silences at home, to drunken parties at uni, to simply surviving during and after the war. 

After meeting Sherlock, his holidays had consisted of faked deaths, loneliness, reluctant wedding planning, lies, murder, and now the challenge of raising a child without her mother.

He sighed. So far Rosie had accepted their explanation that not all families looked the same and that Mary had loved her and was watching over her always. But despite all the bad that they’d been through, John wished that they’d had at least one Christmas together after Rosie had been born, just so he’d have a memory to share with their daughter when she got older.

Still, now that it was the three of them, John couldn’t help wondering. Sherlock had embraced his role as a second parent in Rosie’s life, but what exactly did it mean about their relationship? There were “nontraditional” family structures, and then there was them. He wasn’t sure how many more times he could stand correcting people who mistook them for a couple when all he really wanted was for it to be true.

If only there was a way to start over, a reset button he could press that would take him back to that first night at Angelo’s.

Then John was struck with an idea. Maybe it was crazy. Maybe it was just wishful thinking inspired by the sappy Christmas shows that kept playing on the telly. But there was only one way to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be way more angsty but I just couldn't bring myself to do that right now. So, hopeful it is.


	10. Food and Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a conversation is had over a candlelit dinner.

The next night found them in a cab on the way to Northumberland Street. John had hoped Sherlock would be in a better mood for this outing, but if the constant stream of texts during his shift at the clinic had been anything go by, the lack of interesting cases was going to drive both of them insane.

“I’m so bored,” Sherlock said, “It’s like all the criminals have lost their sense of creativity.”

“That’s why we’re going out to dinner,” said John, “give you something else to focus on.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “How is that supposed to help? It’s not as though eating takes up any brainpower.”

“Then why do you insist on skipping meals when you’re on a case?”

Sherlock glared at him, but held the door open as they entered the restaurant.

Angelo greeted them warmly, clasping hands with both before showing them to their usual table.

“Where is your little angel tonight?” he asked.

“At home with Mrs. Hudson,” said John, “Hopefully asleep by now.”

“So just the two of you. Like old times, yes?” Angelo smiled, “I will bring something for you. Make the evening more special.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, then returned a minute later with a candle and some appetizers.

Sherlock’s eyes darted between the candle and John. When they’d started bringing Rosie, Angelo had removed the flame for safety, but apparently he’d never stopped thinking of their visits as dates. Now that Sherlock thought about it, he realized John had not protested when being mistaken for a couple for quite some time, but still. There was no need to hear the words and reopen old wounds.

“Oh, we don’t need -” he reached for the candle to nudge it back, but John placed a hand on his wrist to stop him.

“Thanks, Angelo.”

* * *

John found himself glancing across at Sherlock more than usual as they worked their way through the meal Angelo had prepared for them. Sherlock was always fascinating, but the flickering light dancing across his face made him seem ethereal and John wondered, not for the first time, whether what he wanted was even possible. Whether he should just be happy with what he had.

Sherlock’s voice broke into his thoughts

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re thinking too hard.”

“What makes you say that?” John asked.

“I’ve known you for almost ten years. I know when your brain’s working more than normal.”

John shot him a look.

“But I still have trouble knowing _what_ you’re thinking,” Sherlock continued, “It’s maddening.”

John felt his heart flutter as he caught the look of frustration on Sherlock’s face.

“You remember the first time you brought me here?” he asked.

“Of course I remember. Pink phone. Taxi driver. You had the wrong wine with your fettuccine.”

“I - wait, you remember what I was eating? Never mind. Do you remember what we talked about?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“You told me you were married to your work.”

“Ah, that.”

“Did you mean it?”

Sherlock gave him a searching look and John thought he could hear his own heart beating, filling the silence.

After a long pause, Sherlock said, “I thought I did at the time.”

“But now?”

Sherlock stared into the flickering flame between them.

“John, before you, I never had a reason to think someone could appreciate me for anything other than my work. When Mike introduced us, I asked you to move in because I thought it was what we both needed, but -” he looked up into John’s eyes, “I never imagined you would stay.”

John let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Of course I stayed, Sherlock. You saved me that night. You’ve saved me over and over again. You made me feel alive when I’d forgotten it was possible.”

His heart pounded in his chest as he reached across the table and placed his hand over Sherlock’s.

“You’re more than my best friend. You’re my family.”

He paused to gather the nerve for what he wanted to say next,

“Sherlock, I -”

But at that moment a loud ring sounded from Sherlock’s pocket. They both jumped and John reluctantly let go of Sherlock’s hand as he reached for his phone. Sherlock glared at the screen but answered anyway.

“Hopkins. This had better good.”

John heard the DI’s muffled voice through the phone. Something about a string of robberies in Hampstead. He buried his face in his hands.

After a moment Sherlock hung up and placed a hand on his shoulder. John raised his head and saw that Sherlock's expression was torn between excitement and...something else he couldn't quite decipher.

“Come on, John,” he said, and led the way into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this, my friends, is why you should always have your phones turned off during a romantic dinner.  
> Yes, I'm evil. Don't worry, we'll get there eventually.


	11. Christmas Carols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John help DI Hopkins investigate an unusual series of robberies.

On the way over to Hampstead, Sherlock’s fingers tapped rapidly at his phone. It seemed that DI Stella Hopkins had been called out to investigate multiple break-ins on a single street, none of which had any clue to the intruder. While Sherlock scrolled through a street view of the area and pulled up the backgrounds of the residents, John sat beside him, blood ringing in his ears. He couldn’t tell if he was angry at Hopkins, annoyed at Sherlock for taking the case, or relieved that he’d quite possibly avoided a painful rejection.

When they arrived in Hampstead half an hour later, Stella extricated herself from the crowd of residents on the sidewalk and waved them over.

“Sherlock. Great, we could use your help.”

She led the way over to a house mid-way down the street.

“Hi John,” she added.

John glared at her, then felt a rush of guilt when her smile wavered. Stella had always been friendly toward both of them - appreciative of Sherlock’s help and had never questioned John’s presence at crime scenes. She’d also never poked fun at their relationship, as most of the other officers did. If he hadn’t known she had a steady girlfriend, John might have been jealous of how well she and Sherlock worked together.

“So, how many houses got hit?” He asked.

“Four that we know of. I’ve got my guys checking in with the other residents now.”

“Wrong,” said Sherlock, his eyes sweeping up and down the street, “There are 18 houses on this street. For someone to break into so many in a short time period is impressive. But the ones that reported break-ins are not the most affluent houses in the area. Why then, would those be targeted above the others?”

“Less security?” suggested Stella.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. If it was about security they wouldn't have gone through so many. They'd have just targeted the house on the end and let the others be.”

John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock continued in answer to the unasked question.

“Same alarm system as all the other houses on the street except the one on our left, so same level of difficulty as the other targets. Christmas lights draped over every inch of the roof, add that to the level of upkeep the yard requires - clearly they have enough money that utility costs are not an issue. Probably plenty of valuable trinkets hidden away in there. Light on in the kitchen and second story bedroom at this hour, but no one at the window trying to see what’s going on. Whoever lives there is away for the holidays. Their lights are on a timer. Obvious. Easy and rewarding target.”

John smiled in appreciation. No matter how many times he watched Sherlock’s mind work, he never failed to be impressed.

Sherlock scanned the street again.

“At least 12 break-ins were attempted this evening. It’s possible that not all were successful but whoever did this was on a mission.”

“They must’ve had a system,” John said.

Sherlock nodded.

“So you’re saying that someone tried to break into practically every house on this street _except_ the ones that are empty?” Stella asked.

“Yep.”

“But why?”

“I need to talk to the residents,” Sherlock said, “All of them.”

* * *

Stella refused to let Sherlock take over the interviews so he and John made their way down the street, poking around back gardens while her team spoke with each of the residents in turn. John made their apologies when Sherlock tried to force a back window open after finding the imprint of a shoe on the ground outside.

“So, let’s go over this again,” he said once they had returned to Stella's office, "some of the houses were broken into but nothing was taken."

Stella nodded, “Of the 18 houses on that street, there were 8 break-ins and 4 unsuccessful attempts. But only 5 reported something missing.”

Sherlock ignored her and flipped through the police reports on the table. He was still upset that he hadn't been able to do the interviews himself and had agreed to let her drive them back to New Scotland Yard only because she'd threatened to kick him off the case if he refused.

“Okay, and the houses excluded were 2 with owners out of town and 3 with dogs in the backyard.” John continued, counting them off on his fingers.

“And one with the master bedroom facing the front of the house,” added Sherlock.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because most valuables are kept in the master bedroom. Stupid thing to do, really.”

“But what did they take?” John asked.

Stella extracted the 5 statements containing descriptions of the stolen items.

John flipped through them and frowned.

“Who goes around stealing wedding rings at Christmas?”

“Seriously?” Sherlock snatched the papers from John’s hands and his eyes lit up.

“What?” John and Stella asked in unison.

“The carolers from tonight,” said Sherlock, “do you know where they’re from?”

“How do you know there were carolers?” asked Stella.

“Several of the children were singing the same insipid Christmas song. Coincidence, you say? No. They were in different houses, were different ages, and judging by the toys, had different interests. So why would they be singing the same song unless they’d all heard it earlier that evening. None of the residents were playing Christmas music. So, carolers. Ridiculous tradition but not uncommon in a neighborhood like that.”

“Oh, come on.” Sherlock said, seeing their blank looks. “Carolers ring the doorbell. People disable their alarm system, open the door and stand at the front of the house while they sing two, maybe three songs. Then, depending on their level of holiday spirit, stand there chatting for another 5 minutes.”

“Leaving the back of the house wide open,” said Stella, already reaching for her phone.

“You see, John, my dislike of Christmas carols is justified,” said Sherlock. Then he turned on his heel and swirled out of the room. John chuckled, bade Stella goodnight and followed in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not much fluff in this chapter, but we’ll get back to it. They still need to finish their conversation after all ;)
> 
> And yes, the caroling thieves stole 5 golden rings. I don’t know why to be honest, because that’s probably not worth the trouble they went through, but oh well. This is my brain on Christmas music and lack of sleep. Weird things happen.


	12. Elf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Sherlock shop for Rosie’s gifts and discuss a popular new Christmas tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this doesn’t exactly fall into the series of events I've got going on here. Basically it can be read as a standalone that takes place anytime within the same Christmas season. Also, I switched the order of the prompts I’m using because the next few chapters after this ended up being one continuous section.

John was searching for an age-appropriate anatomy kit for Rosie when he heard Sherlock calling him from the next aisle.

“What the _hell_ is that?” he asked when John joined him.

John looked up and saw a row of identical dolls with red bodies and Santa hats looming over them. Their large blue eyes that were all stuck looking to the right created an unnerving effect.

Despite this, John couldn’t stop himself from bursting out laughing at Sherlock’s horrified expression.

“It’s called ‘Elf on the Shelf’,” he replied, taking one down and examining it, “One of the mums at Rosie’s nursery school was talking about it.”

“But what is it?” Sherlock asked.

John turned the box over and read the description.

“Apparently you set this thing up somewhere in your house and it’s supposed to watch your kid to make sure they’re being good.”

“So, it’s got a camera?” Sherlock took the box and squinted at the doll through the plastic, “Sounds like Mycroft, only slightly less creepy.”

John laughed.

“No, it’s just a doll.”

“Then what’s the point?” Sherlock asked, handing it back to John.

“It’s supposed to report back to Santa every night to say if the kid’s been good. Then in the morning it moves to a different place.”

“How? It doesn’t even have feet?”

“Magic,” John said, making a twinkling gesture with his free hand.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“The parents are supposed to move it to a different spot every night.”

“Why?”

John shrugged, “Apparently it’s a tradition now. Part of the whole waiting for Santa thing.”

“As if it’s not bad enough that you’re letting her believe in a fat old man with flying reindeer.”

“Fine, how about this?” John held up a model of the solar system, sans-pluto.

“Haha.”

* * *

“It doesn’t even look like an elf,” Sherlock said he followed John down an aisle full of lego kits.

“What were you expecting an elf to look like?”

“I don’t know. Weren’t there elves in...what was that movie you liked?”

“I like a lot of movies,” John said, examining a model dinosaur kit, ”You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The one with the little people who spent three movies walking to throw a ring into a volcano.”

“Oh, Lord of the Rings.”

Sherlock nodded, “Those elves had arrows and fought those hooded things.”

“Ringwraiths,” John said automatically.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“But John -”

“It’s a toy, Sherlock,” he said as he considered a plush snowman with large front teeth, “Let it go.”

Sherlock frowned then picked up a honey bee plushie and held it out for John’s approval.

“Sure,” John said, “but you’ll have to convince her to give up some of her other ones. She’s run out of space on her bed so they’ve started migrating over to mine.”

Sherlock nodded as they turned down another aisle.

“Aha!” said John, picking up the anatomy kit he’d been looking for. He held it out to Sherlock who nodded his approval.

As they headed to the register, John glanced back at the elf section.

“You’re not seriously thinking of getting one, are you?” Sherlock asked, crossing his arms.

“Nah,” John said, “I know I’d end up being the one who has to move that damn elf every day.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, “That thing would haunt my nightmares.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Elf on the Shelf even a thing outside of the US? Idk. 
> 
> Anyway, I ended up writing this chapter because if my friends with kids tell me one more time about how they forgot to “move the damn elf” I’m gonna give them a single sock for Christmas and tell them to set the “damn elf” free. (If anyone doesn’t get that reference, 10 points from Gryffindor.)
> 
> Seriously though, props to you if you’re a parent who does this for their kid. I would never be able to do it (mostly because that elf creeps me out).
> 
> Also, [this](https://www.toysrus.com/product?productId=7E50110C) is what the boys ended up getting for little Miss Rosie instead.


	13. Winter Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes Rosie to the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park and helps Greg chase down a lead on his missing person case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure how it happened, but these are no longer stand alone chapters. If you haven’t at least read Ch. 10, I suggest you do that first.

Sherlock sighed. He was trying to focus on the images that a girl in his homeless network had sent him - a lead on Lestrade’s missing person case, but his mind kept returning to his conversation with John last night at Angelo’s. They’d talked about their first case, the fact that John considered Sherlock his family, and...there was something else he’d been about to say, but they’d been pulled away on a case with Hopkins before he’d gotten the chance.

Sherlock bit back the feeling of hope that kept trying to rise up inside of him. He was content to have John and Rosie with him, grateful to be part of their little family. It wouldn’t do any good wishing for something more between him and John. And yet, there was the way John had thanked Angelo for the candle instead of ignoring it, the way his hand had lingered on Sherlock’s before he’d picked up his phone. Sherlock cursed himself for the umpteenth time. If only he’d let that call go to voicemail he might have had his answer.

But John had shut himself in the upstairs bedroom when they returned home and had already left for work by the time Sherlock woke that morning. So Sherlock had been left alone with nothing but his confused emotions for company.

He glanced back at the image on his phone. He’d seen that place before. He closed his eyes as he tried to remember where, but kept getting distracted by the memory of candlelight and John’s hand, warm on his. He shook his head and tried again to focus on the snow-covered building in the picture, but instead the feeling of John’s strong arms steadying him at the ice rink forced itself in and...oh! The ice rink. The Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he reached for his phone, then paused when he saw the time and remembered it was his turn to pick Rosie up from school. He considered for a moment.

There was nothing to indicate there would be any danger in taking her. It was the middle of the afternoon so the area would be full of people. Although though the small restaurant in the photo wasn't in the busiest part of the park, it was still close enough that nothing bad could happen unnoticed.

He sent a text to Lestrade to meet him near the Christmas Market. They would make some inquiries - probably not the most cheerful of conversations, considering the topic, but nothing Rosie hadn’t been exposed to before. And Lestrade would be there just in case. Besides, she’d been begging to go to the Winter Wonderland since it had opened last month.

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock arrived at Hyde Park, Rosie in tow. She was staring up at the giant observation wheel in awe but waved happily at Greg when he joined them.

“Do you have something on Davies?” he asked

“Who?”

“The guy who disappeared two weeks ago.”

“Oh, _that’s_ what his name is,” Sherlock said.

“Seriously? You’ve been looking for this guy and you don’t remember his name?” exclaimed Greg.

Sherlock shrugged and showed him the photo.

“Restaurant. Family owned and run. Your missing man was seen there several times in the company of this man.” He flipped to another photo, taken the day before, of a man outside the restaurant. The blurry picture quality made it difficult to make out any distinguishing features.

“Thought we could go by and ask some questions.”

Greg considered the idea for a minute.

“Go easy on them Sherlock,” he said, “People are more inclined to help you if you’re nice to them.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

Greg turned to Rosie, “What do you think? Will Sherlock behave?”

Rosie giggled and shook her head.

Sherlock turned to glare at them.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Rosie is the child here, not me.”

“Yeah, except it took _her_ less than four years to learn my name.”

“She clearly has different priorities, _Greg_.”

Greg just shook his head then looked around at the colourful stalls around them.

“So, where is this place?” he asked.

“Around the other edge of this,” Sherlock said, gesturing at the Winter Wonderland festivities around them.

“So why didn’t we just meet there?”

Sherlock nodded toward Rosie, who was wandering toward the carnival rides, “I thought she’d like to see this.”

A fond smile spread across Greg's face as Sherlock lifted Rosie onto his shoulders and led the way through the festivities.

* * *

When they reached the restaurant however, there was a sign posted on the door indicating that the owners had been on vacation since the end of November and that they would be open for business again next weekend

“They’re closed,” said Greg.

“Brilliant observation,” said Sherlock.

“Wait, you knew that? Why did we come here?”

Sherlock peered through one of the windows, “I thought we could poke around, get some clues.”

Greg crossed his arms, “Sherlock, you need a warrant for that.”

“That’s why I brought you.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you, that’s not how it works.”

Sherlock shrugged and wandered around the building toward a thick grove of trees. “No matter, I’m sure there’s other things to see.”


	14. Pine Scented

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sherlock have a conversation while they follow a pine scented trail.

Sherlock led the way into the trees, stopping every so often to peer at the ground or poke around in the bushes. Meanwhile, Rosie skipped along beside Greg, telling him about all the things she wanted to see at the Winter Wonderland.

“And Daddy’s gonna teach me to skate!” she said.

“That sounds like fun,” said Greg. He smiled, remembering the photo Donovan had sent him of John leading Sherlock around the rink. “I heard your Daddy’s a good teacher.”

She nodded and walked away to look at a bird that alighted on a low-hanging branch.

Greg stepped forward to catch up to Sherlock who had stopped at the edge of a clearing, deciding which way to go.

“Anything?”

Sherlock shook his head then turned to watch Rosie who was gathering fallen leaves.

“John thinks she needs to spend more time with kids her age,” Sherlock said, then added, “He’s probably right.”

Greg couldn’t help smiling at the way Sherlock looked at Rosie with such love in his eyes, the way he put her and John before everything else, even his work.

“So,” Greg said after a pause, “You and John.”

Sherlock turned sharply to look at him.

“What?”

“You’re doing a good job with her. You’re good together.”

A look of sadness clouded Sherlock’s eyes, even as he smiled toward Rosie.

“We’re not _together_ , Greg.”

“No, but you want to be.”

Sherlock remained silent.

Greg sighed. Molly was right; it might take a miracle for the two of them to admit their feelings for one another but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

“Oh come on, Sherlock. I’ve known both of you for years and it’s -”

“It’s nothing.” He glared at Greg then looked down at the ground, “John doesn’t see me that way. I’m his best friend who’s helping him raise his daughter.”

Greg sighed in frustration. “Christ, are the two of you blind? I’ve seen the way you look at him...it’s like-”

“Like _what_?” Sherlock snapped, “like the way you look at Molly Hooper?”

Greg froze. He’d known for a while that he was falling for Molly - that the amount of times and the ways in which she crossed his mind had reached beyond the normal boundaries of friendship. But knowing something and hearing it said aloud were two entirely different things.

“Oh come on, Sherlock. That’s not the same.”

“Of course it’s not, said Sherlock, “Because unlike me, _you_ actually have a chance.”

He turned on his heel and strode away to where a small path led into a dense thicket of trees.

Greg stared after him, trying to process his words. Did he actually have a chance with Molly? Had Sherlock meant that, or had he just been lashing out? And Sherlock had all but admitted that he had feelings for John. That should have been a triumph, yet as he watched Sherlock wrap his coat tighter around him and stare at the ground, he realized that the brilliant detective really couldn’t see what was right in front of him when it came to John Watson. He shook his head and followed Sherlock, beckoning for Rosie to follow.

When they caught up with him, Sherlock had raised his head and was staring up at the trees. For a moment Greg thought he was actually crying and felt a stab of guilt but then realized Sherlock was sniffing the air like a dog trying to catch a scent.

“Pine,” he said when Greg appeared beside him.

“What?”

“I smell pine trees.”

“So?”

“Look around. Do you see any?”

Greg turned in a circle. There was the oak tree whose roots Rosie was balancing on and several maples, but no pine.

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, as if that explained everything, then let Rosie climb up onto his shoulders and led the way down the path, following the pine scented trail.

After several yards though, he stopped, set Rosie down, then glanced uncertainly between her and the trees on the left. It was clear that the trail continued that way but Sherlock was reluctant to let Rosie leave the path.

“Sherlock, do you want me to -” he gestured toward the trees.

“Yes, thank you.” He turned to Rosie, “Stay with Uncle Greg okay?”

“Not what I meant,” Greg muttered but took Rosie’s hand and watched as Sherlock disappeared into the thicket of trees.

\---

Greg wouldn’t have worried, but it was Sherlock, and mad, unpredictable things always seemed to happen when he was involved. He half-listened to Rosie talking about the different shapes and colours of the leaves and let out a sigh of relief when Sherlock’s tall form came back into view.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately but Greg saw the look on his face as he took Rosie’s hand and started leading her back the way they'd come.

“I found your missing man,” he said nodding over his shoulder toward the trees.

“What, where?” Greg asked, then his eyes widened. “Oh shit.”


	15. Stuck at Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock stumbles across a murder scene while on an outing with Rosie. The way he handles it surprises both him and John.

Sherlock stood at the edge of the trees, watching the officers walk back and forth down the path, cataloging the scene. He had made sure Rosie was facing in the opposite direction so she wouldn’t see the body when it was removed. He knew he should take her home but couldn’t help himself.

The restaurant had been his only lead and he hadn’t been sure what he would find when they set out down the path behind it. It was only by luck that he’d stumbled upon the pine scented trail that led them to the body. He’d known that finding Davies dead was a strong possibility - after all, he had been missing for over two weeks, but the puzzling thing was _why_ the body had taken so long to show up after he’d been reported missing. It wasn’t as if the spot was that well hidden.

Greg separated himself from his team and joined Sherlock. After checking that Rosie was occupied he asked,

“Did you look at the body?”

Sherlock was surprised to realize he hadn’t. The moment he’d seen the corner of the plastic sticking out from under the pine cuttings, he’d known what would be beneath it and had been focused on getting back to Rosie. Curious reaction, he thought.

“It _was_ him, wasn’t it?” he asked.

Greg nodded, but there had been something in his tone that told Sherlock there was more to the story.

“What aren’t you telling me.”

“Nothing. You should go. Take Rosie home.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Greg met his unwavering gaze and relented.

“He was frozen solid.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. This was exactly the sort of case he lived for - a murder, no known motives or suspects, and now to top it off, a frozen corpse despite the mild winter weather they'd been having.

Then he looked back at Rosie, torn between excitement for the case and responsibility. There was no way he could keep her here while he searched the scene. John was still at work, and probably wouldn’t be too pleased that he’d taken Rosie out on this particular case to begin with. Not that he’d known it would turn out to be a murder, but still.

Sherlock sighed and turned back to Greg.

“Have your least idiotic officers search the area. And make sure Molly does the autopsy. You know where to find me.”

Then he scooped Rosie up and headed toward Baker Street before he could change his mind.

\---

John sighed. Now that the day was over and he had no more patients to focus on, his mind automatically replayed the events of the previous evening. The candlelight, their conversation, his hand on Sherlock’s. He’d been so sure in that moment, so ready to take the plunge, to ask if they could be something more, but then Sherlock had run off on a case, without a second thought. And John didn’t know what to feel.

He shook his head to clear it and pulled out his phone. Usually there were a dozen texts from Sherlock throughout the day - requests to add things to the shopping list or random thoughts that were too important to discard but not important enough to file in his mind palace. But today there had just been one text shortly after Rosie finished school saying that they were going to the Winter Wonderland, then another half an hour ago informing him that they were back home.

John supposed it was partially his fault. He’d disappeared upstairs as soon as they’d returned home from the case last night, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t follow for fear of waking Rosie. Then he’d left without saying goodbye that morning. It was a cowardly move, but John hadn’t been able to face him just yet. What if he’d been wrong. Maybe Sherlock didn’t need more than John’s friendship so long as he had his work to keep him happy.

\---

When John entered 221B, he found that Sherlock had pulled everything out of the freezer. The space was now occupied with several large cubes of meat instead.

“Sherlock, what the hell?”

“Case,” he said without looking up, and pushed some packets of ice into the empty spaces in the freezer.

John shook his head and moved the melting ice cream to the sink.

Before he could ask, Sherlock’s phone chimed with an incoming text and he nodded at John to pick it up. It was from Greg.

_It’ll take one week to thaw before the autopsy._

John frowned and scrolled up, reading through the conversation.

Sherlock filled him in as he fiddled with the freezer thermostat.

“Wait,” John said, “So you were there when they found the body?

He looked over at Rosie in alarm but she was stacking a pile of cushions into a fort for her stuffed animals and looked entirely unaffected.

“She didn’t see it.” Sherlock looked up at John, eyes full of worry.

“It was just supposed to be a lead on Lestrade’s missing person case. I had no idea. Believe me, I never would have taken her.”

John relaxed, then realized how odd it was for Sherlock to be sitting here talking to him calmly instead of dragging him down to Molly’s lab to look at the body.

“Why aren’t you there now?" he asked, "This is the Christmas murder you were waiting for.”

Sherlock looked at him in confusion. “Mrs. Hudson was out. Everyone else was working.”

John felt his heart melt. Sherlock had been willing to give up the case to look after Rosie. His doubts that had surfaced last night when Sherlock had dragged them away from dinner vanished and John fought the impulse to pull Sherlock over and kiss him right then and there. Instead he smiled and handed Sherlock his coat.

“No sense for both of us to be stuck at home. I'll put her to bed. You go solve a murder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No update tomorrow since I'll be spending time with family, but I'll be back the following day with the next chapter.  
> Merry Christmas!


	16. The Case of the Frozen Corpse

#### THE PERSONAL BLOG OF

# Dr. John H. Watson

### 16th December

## The Case of the Frozen Corpse

So, apparently Christmas came early for Sherlock this year in the form of Michael Davies. Or rather, his corpse.

Davies had been missing since the end of November with no trace, so Scotland Yard asked Sherlock for help. At first he didn’t think it was worth his time; said the holidays are a good time to disappear, what with all the tedious Christmas carols and such, but then he got a tip to check out a little restaurant near the Winter Wonderland. It was closed for several weeks while the owners were on holiday but Sherlock’s contact had seen one of their employees sneaking around the area.

So Sherlock went to check it out. He wasn’t able to get into the building so he went poking around in the area nearby and that’s when he found Davies. Dead. Tucked away in a corner of Hyde Park in a shallow grave covered by a large pile of pine branches. Oh, and he was frozen solid.

At this point Sherlock would normally be jumping up and down with excitement, like a child at Christmas, but this time he had an actual child with him. Not knowing he was about to stumble across a murder case, he’d taken Rosie with him to the Winter Wonderland. Yes, I know what some of you may be thinking and there’s a reason I don’t talk about my daughter on here much, but Sherlock really is an amazing parent.

He’d taken DI xxxxxxxx with him as a precaution, which is something he’d never have done before, and I later found out he didn’t even stop to examine the body - his first instinct was to pull Rosie away so she wouldn’t see it.

I was at work that day so we’d planned for Sherlock to spend the afternoon looking after her. He said later that he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the idiots who work in forensics, but I know how difficult it was for him to turn around and go home while there was a case to be solved. Still, he never even seemed to consider the option of calling me to come fetch her. When I got home Sherlock was trying to work out what happened to Davies via text, and Rosie was playing in the sitting room as if nothing had happened - she had no idea she’d even been at a crime scene.

Of course, he’s still Sherlock Holmes, brilliant as ever, and once I was there he went off to solve his Christmas murder. The body really had been frozen through so it would take about a week to thaw properly for the autopsy. However, it was clear that Davies’s body had been frozen elsewhere after his death, then moved to the woods, so Sherlock went looking around for clues.

Turns out that Davies had been frozen in the industrial freezer at the restaurant nearby. It looked bad for the owners, but then Sherlock realized that the employee who’d been seen sneaking onto the property, a man named Jack Hastings, had a history with Davies. Along with the police, Sherlock managed to track him down the next day.

Once he saw the evidence they had against him, Hastings confessed that Davies had owed him a large sum of money. He’d gone to confront him about it but Davies had turned violent and in the resulting fight, Hastings killed him. Not knowing what to do, he’d shoved Davies’ body into the freezer and made his escape, hoping that it would look like a break-in gone badly.

But a couple of days before his employers returned, Hastings lost his nerve and went to take the body out. He knew he wouldn’t be able to move it very far so he waited until late at night and, dragged it into a bunch of trees where he buried it under a bunch pine clippings.

So, Sherlock solved a murder and was home in time to help Rosie hang Christmas stockings by the fireplace. Even after all this time, I’m in awe of the way he cares so deeply about her. She’s incredibly lucky to have him in her life. And so am I.

Happy Christmas.

\---

22 comments:

John. You’ve hardly said anything about the case. What is the point of this post?  
**Sherlock Holmes** 16 December 20:58

Just wanted to show people another side of you. Besides, I think it’s sweet.  
**John Watson**  16 December 20:59

Well really, what else was I supposed to do?  
**Sherlock Holmes** 16 December 21:01

Sherlock walking away from a case? Never thought I’d see the day.  
**Mike Stamford** 16 December 21:15

Priorities change when you become a parent. I guess that’s true for everyone, even Sherlock.  
**Bill Murray** 16 December 21:17

I _did_ end up solving it. You probably didn’t notice thanks to John’s inability to write a decent blog post.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 16 December 21:20

That’s amazing!  
**Jacob Sowersby** 16 December 21:27

My boys! You two are such wonderful parents.  
**Mrs Hudson** 16 December 21:32

That being said, you know you can always ask me for help.  
**Mrs Hudson** 16 December 21:33

We need biscuits.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 16 December 21:35

I’m Rosie’s godmother, not your housekeeper!  
**Mrs Hudson** 16 December 21:37

Thanks Mrs. H. What would we do without you?  
**John Watson** 16 December 21:38

Same here. I’m always happy to help.  
**Molly Hooper** 16 December 21:42

You did help. You were defrosting a corpse.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 16 December 21:44

You know what I meant.  
**Molly Hooper** 16 December 21:45

Yes. Thank you.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 16 December 21:46

Well, isn’t he quite the catch ;)  
**Harry Watson** 16 December 22:03

Cheers, Harry  
**John Watson** 16 December 22:05

*Comment deleted*  
**Harry Watson** 16 December 22:07

You do realize this is a public blog, right?  
**John Watson** 16 December 22:09

Sorry. Am I still seeing you tomorrow?  
**Harry Watson** 16 December 22:11

Yes, see you at 7.  
**John Watson** 16 December 22:14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all had a happy Christmas! I'll still be updating regularly even though these chapters will be a bit after the fact now that Christmas is over. Thanks for following along!


	17. Scarf and Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pays Mycroft a holiday visit, during which they discuss Rosie's Christmas present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For context, see Rosie's wishlist in [chapter 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13011408/chapters/29800701).

Mycroft returned home to find his front door unlocked and the knocker tilted 45 degrees to the right. He straightened it and entered to find Sherlock lounging at his kitchen table, feet propped up on a chair and eating a cookie from the open tin beside him.

“Holiday visits now, brother mine? Is domestic life turning you sentimental?”

Sherlock glared at him and popped another cookie into his mouth.

“How’s the diet?”

Mycroft tapped his fingers on his stomach, shrugged, then took a seat beside Sherlock and reached for the tin.

“It’s the holidays.”

Sherlock smirked and reached into his pocket. “Speaking of which -”

“Yes, John’s already been in touch about the coat. I assume you have an opinion on the matter.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled out a sketch of a coat that looked quite like his, except child-sized and with a wider flare at the bottom. It was clear he had put a lot of thought into this. He’d even attached a colour sample and a close up of certain details.

Mycroft examined the drawing. “Those buttons don’t look functional.”

“I should hope not. Have them put snaps on the inside.”

Sherlock pointed to a note on the back of the paper.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t sure what his tailor would have to say about that request.

“She’s a child, Mycroft. You can’t expect her to fumble with buttons every time she’s going out.”

“What’s the point, then?”

“Makes it look more like mine. It was her request from Santa.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“John insists on letting her believe in Father Christmas, so it’s my job to make it somewhat convincing.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but Mycroft caught the fond smile on his face. Despite his apparent indifference to human emotions, Sherlock had always been the sensitive one in the family. No matter how many times Mycroft had tried to warn him that caring was not an advantage, Sherlock’s big heart and desire to be loved had always been his greatest weakness. Or so he’d thought. True, he had watched many times as Sherlock’s unconditional devotion to John Watson had almost destroyed him, but seeing them now, raising this child together, made Mycroft think that perhaps he’d been wrong after all.

They sat there for several minutes until Mycroft broke the silence.

“You could have just called. Why the visit?”

Sherlock pulled a small package from inside his coat and tossed it to him.

“It’s from Rosie. You can open if now if you like.”

Mycroft turned it over. The wrapping paper had dancing reindeer on it. No doubt John had let Rosie pick the design, but the neat folds in the paper told him that Sherlock had been the one to do the wrapping. He opened it to find a thick knitted scarf with alternating red and green stripes and found a smile creeping across his face in spite of himself.

“She’ll be expecting you to wear it at Christmas,” Sherlock said as he stood and pulled on his own navy blue scarf. Then he reached into the tin and took the last cookie before walking out the door.


	18. Icicles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a few other things on his mind as he prepares for the holiday party.

John made his way up the stairs, arms laden with groceries, and found 221B deserted. Rosie was downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock had disappeared earlier that morning. He’d said something about seeing to her Father Christmas gift, but John thought it was probably just an excuse to get out of preparations for their holiday party that night.

He sighed as he glanced around the flat. Between Sherlock’s recent cases, his work, and various holiday obligations, he hadn’t spared a moment to tidy up beforehand. Of course, living with a 4 year old child and a flatmate who often acted like a 4 year old child didn’t help matters.

And on top of that he still hadn’t found a chance to revisit their conversation from that night at Angelo’s. It was clear that Sherlock no longer considered himself married to his work and that he would give up anything for John and Rosie, but that didn’t necessarily mean what John hoped it meant.

He shook his head and forced himself to focus on the task at hand. With some difficulty, he shoved the groceries into the crowded fridge. Then, seeing the mess of experiments and notes covering the kitchen table, reached for his phone and typed a text:

_Where are you?_

Sherlock’s reply appeared almost immediately. _Visiting Father Christmas. -SH_

John rolled his eyes and began gathering Rosie’s stuffed animals to return them upstairs.

_Haha. Seriously, I could use your help here. There’s still loads to do before tonight._

_Holiday parties are tedious. Why are we doing this again? -SH_

_You agreed to this weeks ago. Rosie’s excited and Mrs. H has already started cooking. It smells delicious by the way._

_I’ve just been to see Mycroft. Isn’t that enough torture for one day? -SH_

John laughed as he restacked the papers on his desk into a tidy pile, then turned back toward the kitchen.

_Hurry up and come home or I’m cleaning up your experiments for you._

_Don’t touch my icicles. -SH_

_What?_

_They’re in the freezer. Don’t touch them. I’ve already had to regrow them twice. -SH_

John walked over and opened the freezer door. Sure enough, Sherlock had somehow managed to make several large icicles grow from the ceiling. One had fused itself to the top of an ice cream container.

It was odd. Not the icicles - John had found far worse things in their kitchen before, but he had thought all the food in the freezer had melted during the last case when Sherlock had removed everything to test how long it took for meat to freeze solid. He took a closer look and he realized that Sherlock had replaced the melted ice cream with a fresh pint of John’s favourite flavour. Of course, he hadn’t bothered to do any of the other shopping.

John shook his head but felt a smile creeping across his face in spite of himself. This was what he loved about life with Sherlock - these small, thoughtful gestures blended with the pure unpredictability of everyday life. He still wasn’t entirely sure that Sherlock felt the same way about him, but he’d never know unless he tried again.

But first there was a party to prepare for, so he sent another message.

_Be home in 20 minutes to help me with this or the icicles are going down._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more quick update before the end of the year. Not sure if anyone will still be interested in reading a Christmas fic in January but I do plan on finishing this.
> 
> Hope you all have a Happy New Year!


	19. Longest Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John host their Christmas party at 221B.

The table was set. Twinkling lights were draped over the tree and the majority of the room. Their guests were set to arrive any minute.

Sherlock glanced out the window. As far as he was concerned, a night alone with John would be a far better way to spend the evening than filling their home with unnecessary people. At least this year it would only be Molly and Greg joining them. Mycroft had thankfully declined John’s invitation; they’d see him at Christmas anyway and that was more than enough.

Mrs. Hudson would be there too, of course, but she would probably head back downstairs by 9. And with the combination of alcohol and the supposed “magic” of the holidays, there was a 87 percent chance that Molly and Greg would leave early to enjoy each others’ company. But then that would leave him alone with John and all the things still left unsaid between them.

Sherlock thought back to his conversation with Greg during their last case. He knew about the pool at the Met that had been reinstated after John had moved back to Baker Street. It seemed that Greg had finally decided to put money down and his chosen date must be approaching rapidly; it was usually Molly who asked those sort of things, not him. Sherlock didn’t care that Greg now had confirmation about his feelings for John, but it wouldn’t make this evening any easier.

He picked up his violin and drew the bow across the strings at random to calm his mind. He hated the hope that fluttered in his chest every time John’s hand brushed his as they were hanging lights on the tree and the satisfaction he’d felt when John had confirmed that no, he would not be bringing a date to their Christmas party.

“Why on earth would I do that?” he’d asked before brushing a stray pine needle from Sherlock’s hair.

Come to think of it, Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time John had been out on a date. Not that it meant anything.

“Sherlock?”

John appeared behind him. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower and he was wearing a new holiday jumper covered in snowflakes and pine trees.

After all the years they’d spent celebrating Christmas together, Sherlock was convinced that John purposely chose the most festive jumpers at this time of the year because he knew how ridiculous Sherlock found them. If only he knew how desperately Sherlock wanted to bury himself inside those jumpers, how jealous he was of those strands of knitted wool for the way they were allowed to wrap themselves around John’s body.

Sherlock realized he’d been staring and turned back to his violin.

“Maybe you could play something a bit more festive,” John said, “it’s supposed to be a party, after all.”

“No one’s here yet.”

“We’re here.”

“Rosie?”

“Said she needed to finish helping Mrs. Hudson,” John chuckled, “Don’t know how helpful she’s actually being but Mrs. H said it was fine.”

Sherlock nodded and drew the bow across the strings again. It wasn’t exactly a holiday song but it was something a little more melodic to fill the silence while they waited for their guests to arrive. As John added another log to the fireplace, Sherlock drifted into one of his own compositions.

“What is that?” John asked, “It sounds familiar.”

Sherlock smiled but didn’t answer. He always seemed to gravitate toward this melody when he was thinking about John, to the point that he’d begun to think of it as John’s song. It contained all the things he wanted to say but could never put into words.

It suddenly struck him that John was standing much closer than usual and he lowered his violin. He could see the flickering light from the fire illuminating the streaks of silver in his hair, could smell the musky scent of his cologne.

John reached around him to straighten one of the baubles on the tree and Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat as their arms brushed. Everything about this holiday season made him long for something more, despite how dangerous he knew it was to hope. But even after John had finished adjusting the ornament, he didn’t pull away.

They stood there, John staring up at him, Sherlock trying to deduce what he meant by it, but as always, John was the one person whose thoughts he couldn’t seem to read. He prayed that John couldn’t hear his heart beating double-time in his chest, hoped that if he noticed the flush in his cheeks, he’d attribute it to the heat from the fire.

“John?”

John smiled at the sound of his name, but at the same time, he seemed to be wavering on the precipice of a decision. He swallowed and his eyes flicked toward the glow of the streetlights streaming in through the window before he settled his gaze back on Sherlock.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak, they heard the front door open, followed by muffled voices and a pair footsteps on the landing. A moment later, Molly entered with a large package overflowing with gifts, followed closely by Greg, who was carrying a smaller bag and a case of beer.

John sighed and gave Sherlock’s arm a squeeze before turning to welcome their guests. Molly’s eyes darted between the two of them as John took her coat and Sherlock gave a vague wave with his bow in greeting before raising it to the strings and launching into a rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

\---

The evening progressed much as expected - an exchange of holidays wishes, cheerful conversation, a recap of things that had happened since they’d last seen one another.

Sherlock thought it was rather appropriate that this happened to be the longest night of the year because he was certain it would never end. His eyes kept straying toward John, hoping to get a hint as to what he’d been about to say before everyone had arrived, but John was laughing with Mrs. Hudson about something or other, while Rosie showed Greg the gingerbread town they had built.

Molly appeared at Sherlock’s elbow.

“We had horrible timing didn’t we?” she said as she refilled both of their wine glasses.

Sherlock shrugged and continued watching John. There was no point denying Molly’s implications but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her and see the pity in her eyes.

“You know John cares for you right?” she said.

Sherlock sighed and took a sip from his glass to avoid speaking. He was tired of having this same conversation over and over again. Of course John cared about him. He was his best friend. They lived together. They were raising Rosie together. John had said it himself: Sherlock was one of the people he loved and cared about most in the world. But hearing the words from Molly just reminded him that the way John loved him was only a faint shadow of the love he desired.

Molly laid a hand on his arm, drawing him back to the present.

“You should just talk to him,” she said, “let him know how you feel.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Maybe you should take your own advice,” he said, turning to look at her.

Despite his mood, he smirked as he noticed the way the fabric of her dress hugged her body in all the right places and added, “Though perhaps _talking_ isn’t what you had in mind for the afterparty.”

She blushed and Sherlock watched as her eyes strayed to the other side of the room where Greg was building a lego tower with Rosie.

\---

Rosie was delighted to have all her favourite people in one place and refused to go to bed while everyone else was still enjoying the party. Finally, after Mrs. Hudson bade them goodnight and returned downstairs, Rosie fell asleep on the couch with her head in Sherlock’s lap while John, Molly and Greg shoved the leftover food into the fridge.

Sherlock lifted her gently and carried her to the upstairs bedroom. He tucked her in among her stuffed animals and took a seat on the edge of John’s bed. He watched the steady rise and fall of her breath and listened to Molly and Greg’s voices drifting up from the landing below as they said their goodnights and happy christmas-es.

He didn’t have to watch them leave to know that they would be continuing their evening together - a walk hand in hand to the coffee shop a few blocks over, followed by a shared cab ride to one of their apartments, ending in bed with passionate words and whispered confessions.

If only it were that simple with John. Sherlock sat listening to Rosie’s quiet breathing and thought, not for the first time, that she would soon need a room of her own. On the rare occasions that he allowed himself to hope, he imagined John moving into his bedroom downstairs when this inevitable transition happened. But more likely John and Rosie would be forced to move out and he would be left alone again.

Sherlock sighed and lay back to rest his head on John’s pillow. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, that what he wanted was possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Sorry for the delay with this chapter. Thanks for all your kind comments! I'm glad you're still interested in a belated holiday story because I definitely want to finish writing it. Updates will likely be every couple weeks now that life is back in full swing after the holidays.


	20. Under the Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the party, John and Sherlock share their Christmas wishes under the tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: brief mention of homophobia

John watched Molly and Greg descend the stairs together and tried to ignore the prickle of jealousy as they stepped out into the street hand in hand. He was happy for them of course, but their easy flirtation that had intensified as the night wore on made it difficult for him to deny that what they had was what he wanted with Sherlock. The knowledge that they both felt the same way, the rising euphoria of falling in love.

He turned and climbed the stairs to his and Rosie’s bedroom. Sherlock had taken her up to bed after she’d fallen asleep on the couch and hadn’t yet returned. John suspected that he’d decided to use it as an opportunity to remove himself from the festivities. He paused to listen at the door. No sounds of a bedtime story or the conspiratorial whispers that Rosie and Sherlock often shared when it was his turn to tuck her in.

“Sherlock?”

When there was no answer, John pushed open the door and smiled when he saw Rosie fast asleep, surrounded by a dozen or so stuffed animals. Then his heart fluttered as he turned toward his own bed and saw Sherlock’s long, slim form stretched out on top of the covers, his head turned to the side, cheek nestled into the pillow. He watched the slow rise and fall of Sherlock’s breath in the dim glow of Rosie’s nightlight and felt the urge to crawl into bed with him, to hold him and never let go.

Instead, he took a seat beside Sherlock, their hips barely touching, and laid a hand on his arm.

“Sherlock?” he said again

Sherlock stirred but did not immediately open his eyes. He leaned closer to John and his head shifted on the pillow, causing a few wayward curls to fall across his forehead.

John reached out to brush them aside just as Sherlock’s eyes slid open.

“Bit early for your bedtime isn’t it?” he joked.

Sherlock scrambled up to sitting and opened his mouth to apologize but John shook his head and nodded toward Rosie, then stood and led the way downstairs so they could talk without waking her.

Back in the sitting room, Sherlock hovered awkwardly by the door as John dropped another log onto the dying fire.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your bed.”

John shook his head. “I don’t mind. I would have let you sleep, but I just...well, it’s still early. I thought maybe we could talk?”

Sherlock gave a sharp nod and waited as John tried to figure out how to express just how much he didn’t mind having Sherlock in his bed without scaring him off. In the end he gave up and settled for commenting on Greg and Molly’s new closeness during the party. Sherlock shrugged it off, saying it was inevitable and began rearranging the stack of presents Molly had left under the tree.

“Hope tonight wasn’t too unbearable for you,” John said.

Sherlock shook his head. “It was...nice. Besides, I know you like holiday traditions.”

John nodded. A part of him had always longed for the fairytale Christmas that holiday movies portrayed. Those warm family moments were missing from all but his earliest childhood memories and even those were tainted by the events of later years. Now that they had Rosie, he was even more determined to create traditions for them to celebrate together, giving her something she could look back on to remember how much her family loved her.

He walked over to stand beside Sherlock.

“Did you have any when you were growing up? Christmas traditions, I mean.”

“Nothing unusual. Just Christmas dinner. You know Father likes Christmas carols so we were forced to listen to him humming off-key for the entire month of December. Mummy would usually make me play something on the violin to drown him out after a few days. And I’ve already told you about the ridiculous family photos and Mycroft’s gingerbread mansions.”

John chuckled and gazed up at the twinkling lights on the tree. Other than the fire, they were the only sources of light in the room.

“What about you?” Sherlock asked.

“Hmm?”

“Any childhood traditions you want to relive?”

John searched his memory, trying to ignore the thought of his last few Christmases at home. He thought back to ice skating with Harry and secrets shared under the Christmas tree.

“John?”

Sherlock was gazing at him expectantly.

John didn’t answer but sat down in the space beside the tree Sherlock had just cleared and leaned back so that he was staring up through the branches.

“Come down here,” he said, patting the ground beside him.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, but didn’t wait for an answer before settling at John’s side and following his gaze upward.

“It’s this thing me and Harry used to do when we were kids,” John said, “before things got...complicated.”

Sherlock remained silent but his warm presence at John’s side prompted him to continue.

“It’s a bit silly, but after we figured out the whole Father Christmas thing, we came up with our own tradition. We used to sneak out of our rooms after mum and dad went to bed, turn the Christmas lights back on, and lay under the tree and tell each other our secret wishes.”

“What kinds of things did you wish for?”

John shrugged, his shoulder brushing against Sherlock’s as he did, “It was usually different adventures we wanted to go on, people we liked, that sort of thing.”

“Why did you have to be under the tree?”

“I think it was something to do with being hidden. Like our secrets were safe, as if everything said under those branches would stay there. It’s the lights too, I think. You stare at them long enough and everything else fades away and you begin to believe that anything is possible.”

Sherlock nodded.

“The last time we did it, we were fifteen. I thought we were getting a bit old for it, but Harry insisted. That’s when she told me about this girl in her literature class she fancied. Said she wished she could tell mum and dad.”

“Why couldn’t she?”

John shook his head. “Dad made it clear that he wouldn’t have any of that under his roof. Our Aunt Jo brought her girlfriend ‘round to the house when she was in town a few years before and they had a big row about it. He said she was a bad influence for Harry and me and basically told her to sod off. ‘Course it didn’t matter by then.”

Beside him he felt Sherlock’s body tense.

“So, what happened?”

“Nothing immediately,” John said, “I think Harry ended up dating that girl for a couple of months. I just did whatever I could to keep the peace until I left for uni.”

They lapsed into silence, then after a few minutes, John nudged Sherlock.

“So, what about you? What would you wish for?”

“A good case.”

“That’s not a secret.”

“Fine then, what’s yours?”

John turned his head and saw Sherlock gazing back at him, the twinkling lights reflecting themselves in his eyes. He was so beautiful, so perfect that even if he’d wanted to, John would have been hard pressed to think of anything else to wish for. That was the thing about this tradition. Under the canopy of pine, surrounded by colourful lights, he found it impossible to say anything but the truth.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” he said.

“Lying under the tree? That seems impractical.” Sherlock brushed a low branch aside, “At the very least we’d be covered by pine needles in a matter of days.”

John laughed. “No, idiot. I mean here, in this moment.” He paused for a beat, in which he brushed his fingers against Sherlock’s wrist. When Sherlock’s hand twitched but didn’t pull away, John continued, “I wish I could stay like this, with you, forever.”

At this, Sherlock turned away to stare up through the branches in silence, refusing to meet his eyes and John felt a sense of panic rise in his chest.

“Isn’t...isn’t that what you want?” he asked.

Sherlock slowly returned his gaze to John’s face, a look of sadness in his eyes.

“No.”

John’s heart sank. Of course he’d misread the signs. He’d been stupid to let himself believe that they could be anything more than what they were. He sat up and tried to swallow the lump in his throat and opened his mouth, unsure if he should apologize or make a joke about having too much to drink. But before he could say anything, Sherlock continued.

“I don’t want things to stay the way they are. I want more than this. More than spending my days with you, knowing that you might leave. More than spending my nights imagining things that will never happen. I want to be more than Rosie’s godfather and your best friend. And I want more than to look at you and know that you’ll never want me the same way.”

The words tumbled from Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop them, before he could even think. It was the wine and Molly’s stupid words of encouragement and the way the fire and Christmas lights illuminated John’s face, making him feel like anything was possible. And now he’d gone and ruined everything. He heard John’s sharp, surprised breath and pushed himself up, showering them both in pine needles. He was halfway across the room before he heard John scramble to his feet.

“Sherlock, wait.”

He stopped but didn’t turn. He couldn’t bear to face John, to see the pity in his eyes, the rejection. He felt John close the distance between them until he was standing barely a foot away.

“Did you mean it?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing.

“It doesn’t matter.”

John took a step forward and placed a hand on his arm.

“Yes, it does.”

There was something in his tone that made Sherlock turn to look at him. John’s face was flushed, though that could be the alcohol, he reasoned. John always bit his lip when he was nervous. But maybe it was just Sherlock’s idiotic confession that had him on edge. But John’s hand was still on his wrist. Sherlock shifted their grasp so he could feel John’s pulse. Elevated.

He hated himself for hoping, but maybe, just maybe...

Again, he heard himself speak before he’d made up his mind to do so.

“Of course I meant it. I want everything about you, John.”

He waited for John to pull away, or to give him a sad smile and say that he did care about Sherlock, just not in that way. What he didn’t expect was the look of relief that spread across John’s face as he took a step closer and shifted his hand so their fingers were intertwined.

Sherlock felt his heart beating a violent tattoo against his chest as John placed one hand on the back of his neck and pulled him gently downward.

“I want that too, Sherlock,” he whispered against his lips, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

\---

One tiny part of Sherlock’s brain wanted to roll its eyes at the cliche of Christmas love confessions and first kisses under the tree. But the rest of his brain was busy cataloging exactly what it felt like to finally have John’s lips on his, knowing that they both wanted exactly the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnddd they've made it! Just in time for January 29th ;) Don't worry, this is not the end of the story. I'm shooting for updates every couple of weeks, depending on what my real life has in store for me.
> 
> Also, if you watch Grey's Anatomy, that's where I got the whole lying under the Christmas tree thing. I've been doing it every year since I saw that episode and there really is something magical about it.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on tumblr at [@adventureofthedancinggirl.](https://adventureofthedancinggirl.tumblr.com/) Come say hello!


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